Nightmare City hc-2

by Nick Oldham

  He nodded.

  She fell into him, crushing herself against his chest. Very painful for him, actually. He steeled himself and took it like a man, without complaint. Her breasts pushed up against him and her warm body clung desperately to him, wanting to find some reassurance from him that she was safe now. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, his arms wrapping around her shoulders and gently squeezing.

  He wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that. Probably only seconds. Then he became aware that she was looking up at him. She drew back slightly and said, ‘That was nice, Henry. I needed that.’

  ‘ So did I.’

  ‘ And I still want to kiss you.’

  There was a pause between them when time stood still. And from that moment on, things became very mixed-up and confused for Henry.

  He lowered his head, she went up onto her toes, and their lips came into soft contact. An electric shock pulsated through him. Initially they tentatively explored each other’s lips. Then their mouths forced themselves hard onto each other. Hard and passionate. A whimper of pleasure escaped from somewhere deep inside Siobhan’s throat. Her tongue slithered into his mouth. He took it. Bit it. Bit her lips. Sinking his teeth firmly into the soft wet flesh, driving her into a frenzy.

  Her fingers gripped his hair. He grew hard quickly. She felt it and responded by spreading her legs around his thighs and grinding herself urgently against him. Her breath came in short pants. Through the denim of her jeans Henry could feel the pulsating heat of her sex.

  She threw her head back and Henry’s mouth moved down to her beautiful throat, where he could see her jugular throbbing wildly.

  She forced his jacket off his shoulders. He drew his arms out of the sleeves. The garment dropped to the floor with a sigh of air. Her fingers went to his shirt, fumbling impatiently with the buttons, eventually ripping the last one off. She tugged the shirt out of his jeans and her face went to his injured chest. She softly licked the deep purple bruising over his breastbone and she unbuckled his belt.

  The pain ebbed away from Henry’s damaged body, replaced by a wave of energy.

  ‘ Oh God, Henry, we need to do it,’ she said.

  No. Say no, Henry, you complete fucking imbecile. Think of Kate. The girls. Think about what happened last time.

  ‘ Yes,’ he said hoarsely.

  He eased her out of her zip-up jacket and pulled her tracksuit top over her head. She released her grip on his fly and lifted up her arms obligingly to facilitate the movement. He tossed the top to one side and his arms quickly carried out a pincer movement to her back, his fingers meeting in the middle at her bra strap. It was a smooth manoeuvre and the clasp was breached in a second and the bra dropped to the floor.

  He could feel her easing his jeans off, which ended up around his ankles, then she pulled down the front of his Y-fronts.

  Another of those deep throaty groans broke from her lips when she grabbed his hard, swaying cock and slid back the foreskin.

  ‘ Aaah,’ he heard himself say. His hands went to her breasts, her nipples erect against the palms. He looked down at them. They were sweet, deep pink, long and excited.

  ‘ Come over here,’ she urged him.

  They shifted to the settee like practising dance partners, allowing Henry the chance to step out of his jeans and trainers. He sat down quickly, removing his underpants and socks as he did so. Siobhan stood over him, bending forwards, those beautiful breasts hanging near his face. In a second she was out of her jeans and knickers. Both of them were completely naked.

  He had only a few seconds to appreciate her body before she pushed him back onto the settee. He lay there without a fight. She went on him immediately, devouring him in her mouth and he surprised himself by not ejaculating there and then. She worked on him with wonderful lips and a wet, wet tongue, constantly looking up at him, judging his pleasure, until he could stand it no longer — at which juncture he took hold of her and drew her up.

  He sat up. She sat next to him. He dropped to his knees and twisted round between her legs.

  God, she smelled intoxicating.

  For a moment they stared into each other’s eyes. Her mouth was open and wet and hot as he clamped his over it and kissed her fiercely. His fingers slid from her breasts and down between her legs, searching for and finding her. She was soaking.

  ‘ I get very wet,’ she said.

  ‘ Apparently.’

  She lay back, opening herself to him. His head went down, his mouth working over her, tongue probing deftly, darting in, out, around. She squirmed and moaned, rotating her hips as everything built inside her. ‘Beautiful,’ she murmured appreciatively. ‘Henry, come on, do it, fuck me. Come on; let’s fuck now.’

  What? Maybe he was an old-fashioned fuddy-duddy, but somehow the word seemed so… inappropriate. OK, it is what they were about to do. But fuck? This wasn’t going to be a fuck, was it? Kate would never use such terminology… yeah, Kate.

  He shrugged off the brief unease and helped Siobhan to lie full-length on the settee. He clambered over her, holding himself aloft, his elbow joints locked. She drew up her knees and Henry, keeping his balance with one shaky hand, reached down and aimed his prick towards her, knowing that within a matter of seconds he would be in deep.

  In deep… all of a sudden he caught an image of himself in his mind.

  He saw his jeans and underpants, socks and trainers, out of the corner of his eye.

  Then he visualised Kate and remembered the look on her face the last time. The hurt, the pain. The despair, the tears. The anger. Kate, the only woman he had truly loved. Who he never wanted to hurt and who he had betrayed in the worst way imaginable. He had done it once, and every day since it had been with him. The guilt. Always ready to pop up at the most inappropriate moments and niggle away at him like a cancer.

  Yet here he was again. Once more with a younger woman. His penis touching the fat wet lips of her vagina, ready to plunge in, and fuck the consequences.

  But this time there would be no consequences.

  In that moment, when it could have gone either way, he made the decision, with a little whimper.

  ‘ I’m sorry,’ he said, kneeling up, his penis curved up out of his bush, touching his belly, swaying between them like an innocent bystander. He reversed off the settee like a crab, leaving Siobhan lying there stunned and unsatisfied, still wanting. ‘I can’t. It’s lovely. It’s been really lovely. And I really would like to do it.’ He gulped for air. ‘But I can’t. I’m sorry. Just won’t work.’ He scooped his clothes together and danced an impressive jig as he got into his Y’s. The bulge of his penis remained highly prominent.

  Siobhan lay there for a few seconds in total, gobsmacked disbelief. This was replaced by a look of scorn and hatred which turned Henry’s soul cold. ‘You can’t do this, Henry. Starting something and then leaving me in mid- fucking air.’ It was as if another character had taken over her, someone slightly deranged. Or maybe just completely pissed off, Henry couldn’t be sure. ‘So, come on, fuck me. I want it. I want you. You can’t leave me in the air like this.’

  ‘ Look, I’m really sorry, but I can’t go through with it.’ He was struggling to get into his shirt and fasten it, finding one of the buttons missing and a tear in the fabric where it had once been. ‘It was a silly thing to contemplate. We’re colleagues, I’m a supervisor and I’m married. It’d all go horribly wrong.’

  She rolled off the settee and stood proudly before him, seething anger hissing from every pore. Henry wasn’t so far gone that he couldn’t appreciate what a wonderful body she had and he was already regretting not completing the act.

  ‘ Is it me?’ she demanded. ‘Am I not good enough for you?’

  ‘ No, it’s not you. I mean — oh damn! You’re great, brilliant. I couldn’t think of anything better than making love to you. God, it’s me. Definitely me.’

  He was slightly off-balance, hopping about on one foot whilst pulling a trainer on.

  The h
ard, open-handed, perfectly-aimed slap which sent him winging across the room, crashing into the cabinets, caught him completely by surprise. It jarred everything that was hurting and made the punch Anderson had laid on him pale by comparison.’

  ‘ Jesus,’ he yelped, in a pathetic heap on the floor. ‘There was no need for that.’

  Still naked, quivering with resentment, she stood over him, her eyes ablaze.

  ‘ I’ll tell you one thing you are right about, Henry fucking Christie, you out-and-out bastard. It has all gone horribly wrong. For you, that is.’

  She stooped down, picked up her clothes and strutted into the other office to get dressed.

  They met, as ever, at the Country Club, all arriving at different times. This, however, was purely a business meeting and no time was spent in the pool. They had use of a small conference room which had been swept for listening devices prior to their arrival.

  Drinks and sandwiches were laid on. All very civilised.

  Morton. McNamara. Conroy.

  The three men who had met many years before, when each had been at the beginning of their chosen career, and since then their lives and fates had intertwined.

  Morton and Conroy went back to 1960s Manchester. They had met when Morton had been a Salford city beat bobby and Conroy was running a couple of streetwalkers and a very iffy protection racket on a few Pakistani shopkeepers. Each assisted the other to mutual benefit. Morton made things easy for Conroy by feeding him information about police activities which might impinge on his business interests; in return Conroy offered up one or two sacrificial lambs by way of good quality prisoners which enhanced Morton’s professional standing.

  Both had prospered.

  Conroy grew as a criminal. Morton was promoted as a detective.

  Now Morton was close to retirement. At fifty-four he had thirty-five years’ service, having been rotten for thirty-four of them. At his rank he could have stayed until he was sixty, but mid-fifties had always been his aim.

  And fifty-five it would be.

  When he said goodbye to the job next year he would step into a world of secretly acquired wealth, amassed cautiously over the years, in particular the last ten or so during the life of the NWOCS when he became virtually autonomous, being able to operate how he saw fit. And also Conroy had become much more profitable over these years, mainly due to Morton’s protection.

  Now Morton owned a villa in Spain, an apartment in Barbados and a holiday cabin in Eire. The Spanish home came with a pool, Porsche and maid; the Caribbean one with a Mini-moke, the Irish one with a small lough, brimful of trout. All had been bought covertly through third parties.

  When he retired he intended to split his time between the three, pretending they were rented if anyone should ask. His life would be financed — on the face of it — from his police pension and savings, and some legitimate stock-market dealings. This, in fact, would only be pin money, the icing on the cake of a career of corruption: his association with Conroy had placed?2.2 million in Channel Island and Cayman Island bank accounts. He reckoned this would provide him with about one hundred and fifty grand a year in interest.

  Life would be very sweet.

  All he needed to do was see the next twelve months through.

  Multi-millionaire Sir Harry McNamara had come into the equation in the 1970s during a shady land deal associated with Conroy, which was fortunately being investigated by Morton who was then on the Fraud Squad. By some wily manoeuvring, Morton prosecuted some of the tiddlers and allowed the fat fish to swim away. Craftily Morton made this appear to be a successful operation through police eyes.

  The land deal had been ratified by a certain local councillor called McNamara, as he then was. All three men benefited from the sale of the land which was purchased for an inflated fee by a national company who built a multi-storey car park on it. The spin-off in terms of building contracts were enormous. All from a piece of scrubland that Conroy had bought for next to nothing from an old bloke who needed to have a gun shoved into his mouth before he signed the contract.

  From that inauspicious start an empire grew.

  Soon afterwards, Conroy started supplying McNamara with women in payment for certain favours. A couple of these women mysteriously disappeared. Conroy asked no questions, but warned McNamara. No more disappeared — until Marie Cullen.

  When McNamara became an MP and, for a short time, a big noise in the Foreign Office, it wasn’t long before Conroy urged him to look into the possibilities of dealing in guns. Towards the end of the 1980s Conroy, who had always dabbled in the British underworld scene of arms dealing, had a flourishing trade based on selling arms stolen in America or bought in Eastern Europe to warring African countries. He’d made a real killing selling to Ethiopian warlords. They always seemed to have enough money to buy guns and whisky.

  In essence, McNamara used his position of influence whilst in the Foreign Office to bring about arms deals, usually right under the nose of the PM, who had a soft spot for him. There were many photographs of the Premier shaking hands with overseas dignitaries — usually African — whilst in the background McNamara could be seen standing next to a government official, smiling, chatting, arranging deals.

  In his own constituency McNamara was a staunch proponent of law and order and policing issues. When gang warfare came to Lancashire and Manchester in the mid-1980s, it was McNamara’s pressure and his mouth to the PM’s ear, that the Home Office should fund a regionalised unit, an extension of the Crime Squads, to tackle the problem head on.

  And who better to run it, McNamara recommended, than that excellent detective with a wealth of experience in dealing with gangsters — Tony Morton, then a Detective Superintendent.

  Fully dressed, Henry said, ‘Which car are we going to Blackpool in?’

  ‘ I don’t give a shit. Use which you want. They’ve all got their keys in the ignition. I’m not coming with you.’

  ‘ Yeah… Look, I’m sorry, Siobhan. Nothing personal.’

  ‘ Fuck off, Henry,’ she said sourly.

  He nodded. Tight-lipped, hot and flustered, he went swiftly down the stairs to the garage below. He opened the electrically controlled doors and got in the first car he came to. There was a piece of material in the driver’s seat which reminded him of a bikini bottom. He tossed it into the passenger footwell and then adjusted the driver’s seat which was pulled forwards for a short person. Then he reached for the ignition key. It wasn’t there. He checked the sun visors. Not there either.

  Siobhan rapped her knuckles on the window.

  ‘ Not this one,’ she said in a tone which made him feel stupid. ‘It’s a stolen car, been seized for evidence.’

  ‘ Oh, right,’ he said. How was he supposed to know? Where was the property label that should be prominently displayed on it?

  ‘ Use that one,’ she said, pointing to the next one along, a Vauxhall Vectra.

  He got out, sidled past the stolen one, wondering how he could ever have mistaken an Alfa Romeo for a police car.

  Minutes later he was on the road, heading west out of Blackburn. Away from Siobhan and a big mistake that might have been.

  ‘ Right about now he should be getting his end away, if it’s all going to plan,’ Detective Chief Superintendent Tony Morton declared after checking his watch. ‘And,’ he added with aplomb, ‘I have no doubt it is going to plan.’

  ‘ I’ll believe it when I know it for sure,’ said McNamara. ‘He’s not stupid,’ he went on, referring to Henry Christie. ‘He might just suss what’s going on.’

  ‘ Naah.’ Morton shook his head. ‘My woman detective is very good. She’ll fuck his brains out before he knows what’s hit him. She’s done it before.’

  ‘ At least he’s getting sorted,’ Conroy said. ‘Make sure you do a proper job, that’s all, Tony.’

  ‘ Worry not. By tomorrow night he won’t know his arse from his tit.’

  ‘ Hm,’ McNamara muttered through closed lips. ‘What’s happening with Marie C
ullen’s murder, that’s what I want to know.’

  ‘ It’s going nowhere, rest assured. Particularly now that Saltash is out of the picture, as it were.’

  ‘ Very funny,’ said the MP, not appreciating the play on words relating to the pimp’s demise underneath a portable TV set. ‘What about that Gillian, the one who did it? Where is she? She’s the one I had at our last meeting, if you recall.’

  ‘ Is she?’ Morton hadn’t realised that. ‘Does that cause you a problem? The cops wanted to talk to Saltash and he was a link to Cullen. Now he’s gone, what’s the fuss?’

  The look on McNamara’s face made Morton ask, ‘What’s the fuss?’ again, this time firmly.

  McNamara opened his mouth to say something. He quickly clamped it shut.

  ‘ Spit it out, Harry,’ Morton commanded.

  ‘ Shit… if the police catch her and interview her, she might tell them about me.’

  ‘ Why should she? Her killing Saltash, and her clients are two different things.’

  ‘ I said something stupid, I think, when I was with her. Something incriminating. She might use it.’

  ‘ What did you say?’

  Conroy, listening, closed his eyes despairingly.

  McNamara shrugged as though it were nothing. ‘I made reference to Marie.’

  A long, pissed-off sigh exhaled from Morton’s lungs.

  Conroy exploded. ‘Are you a complete fucking nutcase? You must be short of something up here.’ He tapped his head. ‘What the hell happens to you when you get an erection? Does all the blood come out of your brain, or something, because it’s fucking obvious it goes into neutral.’

  Morton rubbed his eyes wearily. ‘You are really going to have to get yourself sorted out. You’re becoming a weak link.’

  ‘ What can we do about her?’ McNamara insisted on knowing.

  ‘ Ronnie?’ Morton turned to Conroy, eyebrows raised.

  ‘ I’ll sort her out,’ he said angrily, through gritted teeth. ‘I’ll get some Salford low-life to blow her away — if we can find her, that is.’

  ‘ Good,’ said Morton. ‘Now, some better news for you both. Munrow’s been killed.’